The tongue is a silken key to the cosmos.
Carrying with it the taste of three thousand yesterdays,
And secrets gasped only seconds before being screamed.
But sound doesn’t carry here.
It remains frozen as the sweat..
Crystallized; suspended diamonds lifting up from a heaving spine.
In unison, cells dilate and pulse in time with fervid, animal instinct.
The steps memorized only to be destroyed once again when the fever breaks,
Leaving the lungs and mouth lurching forward, grasping still for that fleeting flavor.
Caramelized desire lingering in the back of the throat before fading entirely..
And blending itself back into the still, frigid waters of separation.
A place where the streaks of filthy snow remain eternal on the bank.
There on those dead, frozen grasses, the rapid deprivation ferments.
Ashen, blue veins scrawl across skin too pale to be real,
Lying in wait for fingertips, blood red from the ice, to leave thin trails of flame.
Burning away every last inhibition.
Searing the soul until all that remains is an empty, aching space,
Crying out in a hoarse moan to be filled again and again..
Though the unbearable frailty of it all is represented in the sudden upheaval.
The terrible gushing upward of that water as it douses to the bone,
And reduces the body to a shivering mass of fear and uncertainty.
In place of a savage thrust of heat, there is only a single, icy tear.
In place of a gaping sense of invincibility, there is only a quivering question..
How frail is this heart?
Frail enough to contemplate the inevitable.
Frail enough to give everything there ever was to the impermanent.
Frail enough to weep at sunrise, as another day has come and gone..
Yet out of that frailty blooms a strength too beautiful to comprehend.
A strength that whispers, A single taste will have been worth all the pain.